Football

by Michael Sells

  Naturally, the regulations shape the players and in turn the style of play. One example of this is a change in the rules on treating injuries that has had a marked effect on tactical gamesmanship in football. Up until 2006 injuries during play were covered by a long-standing ‘gentleman’s agreement’: if a player remained on the floor following a collision, it was commonplace for the opposition to put the ball out of play so as not to take advantage of their extra man. The inherent flaw in this agreement is that it relies on honesty and goodwill, which is often missing, especially in the latter stages of important games. This convention was often invoked in an unsportsmanlike way to prevent promising counterattacks, with players squirming dramatically until play stopped. Although the rule was unwritten, it was so entrenched that booing and whistling from the crowd usually led to the attacking side being pressured into relenting. It was an admirable convention but as a ‘win at all costs’ mentality crept into the sport, it became arcane and unsavoury. The tipping point came in the 2006 World Cup in Germany as games were constantly halted by exaggerated injury, and a decision was taken to hand the responsibility of stopping play over to the referee. In 2012 Arsenal manager Arsène Wenger gave his views on the transition, claiming players ‘are scared of being unpopular or criticised by the media if they don’t do it’. The solution is a work in progress, but something clearly had to change.

  Another aspect of football that needed cleaning up was the way in which outfield players were allowed to challenge goalkeepers. For decades a loose ball in the penalty area was the prelude to bloodshed. Fans were used to seeing goalkeeper and attacker alike grit their teeth and wince before throwing themselves studs first or headlong towards the ball. Goalkeepers were commonly clattered and shoved over the line and the goal would stand.

  Goalkeepers were made of sterner stuff in those days. During the Second World War a German paratrooper was captured by the English and kept as a prisoner of war. He took to playing in goal during football matches within the camp, and by the time the war ended he was good enough to play professionally. He signed first for St Helens Town before later securing a contract at Manchester City, the club where he would go on to make his name. That name was Bert Trautmann. He has come to be associated with endurance and perseverance following his exceptional involvement in the 1956 FA Cup final against Birmingham City. With seventeen minutes remaining and with City 3–1 up, Birmingham were on the attack. As striker Peter Murphy bore down on goal looking certain to score, Trautmann came hurtling out, throwing himself at Murphy’s feet. Murphy clattered into him but the brave keeper came away with the ball as City maintained their 3–1 lead. Trautmann lifted the cup and went home to nurse his wounds. It only emerged three days later that the German had broken his neck in the challenge before playing out the remaining seventeen minutes. Due to rule changes such a clash would probably not happen today, but in any case it is hard to think of any modern goalkeeper who would be robust enough to continue playing with such an injury.

  Few people would want to return to the environment that brought about such a horrific injury, yet when it comes to outfield players feelings are more mixed, varying from country to country, culture to culture. Traditionally technical footballing nations such as Spain and Brazil prioritise thoughtfulness and creativity, with physical confrontation kept to a minimum. In Italy and Germany the thinking is that there is little need to foul if you can intercept. Defending is an art in these nations, something that has been both a contributor to and the result of defensive masters such as Franco Baresi and Franz Beckenbauer. British football is far more primal. Whereas other nations see unnecessary physicality in the sport as juvenile and uncultured, in Britain it is a traditional show of dominance. Many fans want to see routine displays of brute strength and ruthlessness in their outfield players, or at least those in defensive roles. Players shirking strong challenges in the British leagues are seen as uncommitted, whereas overseas they might be considered pragmatic and sensible in avoiding a possibly dangerous collision. Refereeing is paramount when teams differ in their approach to tackling. Too stern and the more physical team will be at a disadvantage; too lenient and the technical team will get brutalised.

  With each alteration of the rulebook, the requirements for success change too. Teams at all levels will adapt to best embrace rule changes and enhance their chances of winning. It is no coincidence that in the years since the rules surrounding challenges on goalkeepers were tweaked, the techniques and habits of goalkeepers have changed too. Aside from no longer requiring the physical bulk and brawn that was once a staple of a keeper’s makeup, it is often said that modern goalkeepers are incapable of holding on to a ball. Football’s elder supporters reminisce about the glory days: ‘In my day Gordon Banks would have held on to that … and only using one hand!’ It is a facet of the evolution of goalkeeping. Without the threat of a centre forward clattering into you every time the ball nears your hands, the skill of holding on to a ball becomes less essential. It has been replaced by shot-stopping, parrying and punching clear instead of trying to hold the ball and accidentally dropping it at the feet of a striker waiting to poach – the wiry poaching striker having outlasted the burly, brutish centre forward due to the same changes.

  This instinctive adaptation means that the rules and regulations surrounding football will never stop at controlling the state of professional play. They will always reshape the game at the grass-roots level. In the same way that celebrity footballers are burdened with the tag of role models and vilified for diving or feigning injury, the rule makers and refereeing bodies need to take responsibility. They set the parameters of play and as such are just as influential in the prevalence of gamesmanship. Although an earlier change in the rules relating to blood injuries probably wouldn’t have changed the outcome of Terry Butcher and England’s match against Sweden, a history of stricter refereeing in Britain surely would have. Without such lenience on tough tackling and robust play it is highly unlikely that, with his natural attributes, Terry Butcher would have managed to gain such prominence in English football. He might have been replaced by an English equivalent of Franco Baresi or Franz Beckenbauer. And in turn, that change could have brought about a golden era of technical English attacking players, comfortable with the ball at their feet without the threat of defensive ‘hard men’ bearing down on them.

  The world of football is a complex one, with no two elements completely separate. The nostalgic aura created by a childhood spent falling in love with the beautiful game makes it inevitable that fans will pine for football’s ‘good old days’. However, if those days were to return then the fast-paced, no-nonsense matches so many clamour for would more than likely be replaced by stop-start, injury-filled farces. Footballers are now a different breed entirely, and in such an environment the likes of Lionel Messi would not last long.

  Chapter 6

  Imagine that …

  Torino’s greats survive beyond the 1940s … and set the standard for football across the globe

  The greatest players and teams in football gain immortal status. Johan Cruyff’s free-moving ‘Total Footballing’ Netherlands side of the 1970s will forever be romanticised by fans of the game. The Hungary side which finished runners-up in the 1954 World Cup, the ‘Magnificent Magyars’ spearheaded by the inimitable Ferenc Puskás, are the stuff of legend. It’s not a phenomenon specific to international sides. Still loved is the AC Milan team of the late 1980s, resplendent with the attacking bite of Marco van Basten and Ruud Gullit, backed up by the defensive steel of Paolo Maldini and Franco Baresi. More recently, the Barcelona side built around the otherworldly Lionel Messi has been mooted for footballing folklore. Some teams, however, are forgotten by all except those who witnessed their magic.

  In the 1940s one team seemed destined to have secured the cooing admiration of journalists and supporters for years to come. Their greatness on the pitch broke records and decimated opposition defences. Yet today most people outside Italy would struggle to name a s
ingle member of their great side. They have drifted out of football’s collective memory to be replaced by their rivals, including Turin neighbours Juventus. The team in question is Torino, Il Grande Torino – the Great Torino, or so they could have been. Considering how little is now known about this sensational team, their dominance was anything but fleeting.

  There is no shortage of examples when it comes to encapsulating Torino’s prowess. To this day they still hold records in the Italian game. They were showmen and still hold the record for most goals in a single Serie A season, scoring a stunning 125 goals in 40 games during the season of 1947/48. Their single greatest performance came two seasons earlier. On 28 April 1946 Torino travelled south to the Stadio Olimpico in Rome, home to Lazio and AS Roma. On this particular day it was Roma they were up against, but in next to no time the home side probably wished Lazio were in their place. Torino struck early and often. By the twenty-minute mark the score was starting to get embarrassing; Torino were six goals up. The rest of the game was an exhibition of superiority as Torino ruled over Roma, retaining possession impeccably. Manager Luigi Ferrero had given the word to his players to ease off on their hapless opponents. The job was already complete and they eased through the remaining 70 minutes, scoring just once more before exiting the pitch to rapturous applause and a standing ovation. More than half a century later it remains Roma’s heaviest league defeat, although in 1947 Torino came close to lowering the bar further as they again scored seven after Roma had taken a 1–0 lead.

  For such dominance it seems inconceivable that the legacy of such a side should be erased, but on 4 May 1949 that is what happened. Il Grande Torino were in much demand at the time; everyone wanted a chance to see the spectacle. On 1 May the team had travelled to Lisbon for a testimonial match in honour of Benfica captain Jose Ferreira. The Serie A season was still in progress but, following a vital 0–0 draw with rivals Inter Milan that left them sitting four points clear with four games to go, Torino agreed to take a short break. The match against Benfica was a typically high-scoring affair with Torino graciously succumbing to the star of the show, losing 4–3 to Ferreira’s Benfica. Tragedy struck when they came to return home, hoping to finish off the final leg of their season and claim an unprecedented fifth consecutive league trophy. Travelling by plane, the team had begun their approach into Turin when things started to go wrong. The pilot was Pierluigi Meroni, a greatly respected man and a decorated war veteran. Turin was obscured by cloud and the rain was lashing down. Conditions were treacherous. As the plane broke clear of the clouds Meroni became all too aware of their predicament. He had mistaken their positioning and they were hurtling towards Turin far lower than he had intended. The Superga hills surrounded them and sadly there was no way out. Meroni fought in vain to reroute the aircraft as Il Torino Grande crashed head-on into an exterior wall of the Basilica of Superga (pictured opposite), positioned at the peak of one of the hills. Flames and showering debris engulfed Superga. There were no survivors; all 31 passengers and crew members perished.

  The mourning was heartfelt and widespread. A funeral was held two days later in Turin and thousands attended. It has been estimated that over half a million people lined the streets as the funeral cortège passed through, trailing behind a symbolically empty team bus – the Conte Rosso or Red Count. It was a tragedy that hit the entire nation, not least because of the commanding role that Torino’s stars had played in the Italian national team. They had regularly contributed over half of the Azzurri’s players; in May 1947 Italy had beaten Hungary with a side that included only one non-Torino player, the Juventus goalkeeper Lucido Sentimenti. Many Italians still feel that, with the help of the fallen Torino team, Italy could have added to their impressive haul of four World Cups. They won consecutively in 1934 and ’38, but no further tournament took place until 1950 due to the Second World War and its aftermath, so Italy were unable to use their wealth of Turin-based talent. This is a large factor in the relative anonymity of the illustrious Torino side, since they were never able to show off their talents on the global stage.

  Following the Superga disaster Torino fielded youth players for the final four games of the season and managed to seal the trophy. The youngsters proudly upheld the standards of the club with a 4–0 victory against Genoa in the team’s first game after the crash. The title slipped from their reach the following season, with city rivals Juventus prevailing as Torino slumped to sixth place. A mini-revival the following season saw them finish in second, but since then victory in 1975/76 remains their only further league win to date.

  Although Torino excelled as a unit, they were just as impressive as individuals. Like most of the great teams in history, Il Grande Torino had a magnificent jewel in their crown and his name was Valentino Mazzola (pictured above). Deployed as an attacking midfielder, Mazzola was central to everything Torino did. As good going forward as he was in defence, immaculate in the air or with the ball at his feet, he quite simply had it all. His peers regularly described him as the ‘complete player’ and he attracted praise from throughout the sport. Mazzola’s teammate Mario Rigamonti once said: ‘He alone is half the squad, the other half is made by the rest of us together.’ Enzo Bearzot, the coach who finally led Italy to their third World Cup in 1982, is as qualified a voice as any when it comes to assessing Italian talents. He said: ‘The greatest Italian player of all time was Valentino Mazzola; he was a man who could carry his whole team.’

  It would be easy to assume that the source of Torino’s success was ten great players led by one phenomenal talent, but Mazzola was not naïve enough to overlook the work of the team, realising that his colleagues enabled him to prosper. ‘Football will always be a game of eleven,’ Mazzola once said. This mantra was central to Torino’s great achievements, as it was to many of the teams that followed in their footsteps. Before Torino, football had been far more compartmentalised. Centre halves prowled the field between the goalkeeper and the midfield but rarely strayed beyond. Strikers would hunt for space among the opposition’s defenders and were not expected to abandon that role. What Torino pioneered was complete contribution. Players would help one another out regardless of their position. Victories like the two seven-goal routs against Roma were made possible by the sheer intensity of their play. Attacking as a unit, defending in numbers, Torino’s games were regularly won in the first half, if not by the number of goals scored then by the exhausting tempo to which they subjected the opposition.

  This may sound suspiciously similar to the famous Dutch export of Total Football, a system made famous by Johan Cruyff. However, there was a key difference. Total Football, or totaalvoetbal as the Dutch call it, was the result of meticulous planning and football theory. It came from the classroom. That’s not to say that Torino’s approach was not methodically thought out, just that it originated in a different place. Total Football was the brainchild of Dutch coach Rinus Michels, who had the following to say on his approach:

  It is an art in itself to compose a starting team, finding the balance between creative players and those with destructive powers, and between defence, construction and attack – never forgetting the quality of the opposition and the specific pressures of each match.

  The results may have been very similar, but the methodology was vastly different. Torino’s approach stemmed from the stands of their Colosseum-like ground, Stadio Filadelfia. The fans demanded passion and commitment befitting of their setting; the expectation was for the Torino players to fight for one another and for the pride of the shirt. If the Dutch model was, as Michels called it, an art, then Torino’s approach was DIY. Michels, Cruyff and co planned their games in depth beforehand and decided the best way to approach each one. For Torino, it just happened. If an extra man was needed, he filled in dutifully. It was a mentality that was instilled in each of the players out of principle rather than plotting.

  The fact that the Dutch were able to re-enact a style of play reminiscent of Torino’s should not belittle the achievements of the Itali
ans. Many of football’s scholars believe that Torino provided the major building blocks for the creation of Total Football. In the wake of the Superga disaster Italian football needed a new style, as it now lacked the attacking control of Mazzola and his team-mates. The replacement was Catenaccio, literally translating as ‘door-bolt’. It took the ‘strength in numbers’ approach of the great Torino side and moved it back, sitting deeper on the pitch, clogging the defence and stifling attacks. The style gave birth to a new position: the ‘sweeper’, who dropped into the space between the defence and the goalkeeper to, as the name suggests, sweep up any loose balls. It was a hugely frustrating system to play against and brought significant success to Italian teams, none more so than Milan’s Internazionale. The system did, however, require a spark of magic to ensure that games did not fizzle out into stolid, dour affairs. In the case of Internazionale, the man to provide this was none other than Valentino Mazzola’s son Sandro, who played a similar role to the one his father had in Il Grande Torino. Mazzola and Catenaccio eventually led Internazionale to the top of the European tree, culminating in a European Cup victory in 1964.

  However, Catenaccio had an expiration date, as more attacking sides eventually worked out a way to penetrate the impenetrable. It came as no surprise that it was Rinus Michels’ Ajax who managed to render the system obsolete once and for all. His side, featuring such talents as Johan Cruyff and Johan Neeskens (above), first defeated Inter Milan 2–0 in the 1972 European Cup final before routing fellow Catenaccio exponents AC Milan 6–0 in the second leg of the European Super Cup final the following year. It came as a bitter blow to the Italians, not only signalling the need for an overhaul but also giving a glimpse of just what Italian football could have become. Italy, a nation now synonymous with defensive football, could well have been a beacon of flair and overwhelming attacking dominance had Torino escaped the tragedy of 1949.